The crews were close to the bridge now. Roger longed for the comfort of its shadow, longed for the word of the coxswain that the end was near. He felt now as he swung forward to his catch that he had but a half-dozen more strokes in his body. To row another hundred yards seemed absolutely impossible.
“Bainbridge only two-thirds of a length ahead!” shouted Rust. In answer Pete bellowed over his shoulder: “Get into it now! Don’t quit!” Roger felt the stroke quicken and mechanically followed. For the first time during the race the remembrance of Pete’s challenge recurred to him. He was worn and weak; his eyes bleared, his head was a dull depressing weight upon his shoulders, every muscle in his body cried aloud for mercy; but his spirit rose in defiance and sent along the quivering nerves a command which the muscles could not disobey.
“Only half a length now!” cried Rust, as the boat emerged beyond the bridge. “You can do it, only twelve more!”
Talbot lifted his stroke another notch, and Rust counted. At each pull Roger assured himself that he could do one more, and threw into that one all the power that was in him. He could hardly see Eaton’s back as it swayed before him. The race had lost interest for him; he was fighting Talbot, proving that he was no quitter.
“Seven—eight,” counted Rust. “Pull! Pull! You’re almost there!”
Four more! To Roger those four strokes seemed like four of the labors of Hercules. He could do but one before he broke,—but one more after that. Dizziness came sweeping over him, he gasped hard for breath. One more before he fainted!—
“Let her run!” screamed the coxswain.
Roger dropped, but caught himself by a supreme effort as Pete turned his dripping, heaving shoulder to look at his crew. Over the stooping bodies of Three and Two he saw the upright form of Bow, smiled faintly, and lurched heavily forward, while Rust splashed water into his face. Behind him Bow slumped down upon his oar.